Drama

How can I not love American co-workers when the meeting goes like this:

"When the rubber hits the road we want to make sure we hit the road running."

"But companies are still tying up their shoelaces now, when they should already be taking baby steps to be prepared for when the shit hits the fan."

"Let me poke my head around this and try to speed-deliver then."

"Good. I guess you could choose your battles if that helps, just make sure we don't throw the baby out with the bath water."

Disneyland

Many years I've spent searching solace
On the road, in the sky, on my shoe lace
The answer, found today and ends tomorrow
Brings joy with it and sorrow

Because I'm designed in layers and my face
can give you a lie without a trace
And the unfunny jokes that I pretend to borrow
Will convince you without frown on your brow

There was always something out of place
A smile to fake, a dream to chase
No home that was home to the marrow
Guilt hanging above, a shadow, a crow

The answer just struck me today: this place
was where I could act with comfort and grace
But life is funny, and one year is narrow
it all ends when I graduate tomorrow.



(See minute 2:20)

The last mile.

Sleep at 3:00.

Wake at 8:00.

Pack a banana.

Arrive at 9:00.

Print materials.

Sit.

Breathe. Focus. Read until midnight.

Don't panic.

Just keep going.

On sausages and law

After my exam finished I hung out with a friend to relax and immediately relieved myself of that disturbing news I heard in the middle of studying which I had had to push aside for the time being. So basically I blurted out the whole story about Sri Mulyani.

"Congratulations! Good for her. That's an amazing position", said he, who had always wanted to work at the World Bank.

"Yes it's amazing and we're proud. But we've lost the best finance minister one could ever hope for. And I'm worried, because dammit. No offense, but I'm sick and tired of BRIC. Everyone only ever talks about Brazil Russia India China. BrazilRussiaIndiaChina. It's about time it became BRICI. And I think we had a good momentum going with her as finance minister."

Being Brazilian, he grinned wickedly. And then he shrugged dramatically. "Sorry. It's hard to catch up with us."

"Zip it. We could be as good. Well, should. Should be as good. God. Politicians are..." I clenched both my fists until they shook to convey how politicians in the parliament are.

"They are." He nodded sympathetically.

"And I can't believe they make the law. They actually make the law. This collective force of incompetence who only care about their political agendas instead of the things that really matter. It makes me dizzy."

"Yup. Well you know what they say about sausages and law."

"What do they say about sausages and law?"

"You don't want to know how they are made."*

"Fuck. That is profound."

*(The quote allegedly comes from the West Wing)

Completely waffled.

Of all the things to be said about this university, this is the most amazing thing:




















The Harvard Waffle.

One can just imagine the administration officers, sitting in their annual roundtable budget meeting, shifting their spectacles to get a better look at the surplus balance.

"Hem. So the good news is we still have surplus despite the credit crunch. The bad news is that it's not enough to grant more waivers of tuition fees."

"This is very grave. What shall we do with it then?"

"Let's get customized waffle makers."

"Ooh can we get them with the Harvard crest on it? That would be like super awesome."

"Totally."


















This is the dining room. I've only been here once because it is mostly restricted to undergrads only, which is downright unfair. The rest of us are just muggles, apparently.


PS: We've planned clandestine operations to sneak in for waffles every weekend until we graduate. Hopefully the house-elves will be cooperative.

QWERTY

The dichotomous distinction between Annex I and Non-Annex I countries is inefficient for climate change negotiations and doesn't solve the purpose going forward, but unfortunately a path dependence on the status quo has made most people take it as a given, so said Professor Robert Stavins today in class.

He then described his hope that future climate change negotiations would vastly improve over the "QWERTY keyboard" of international climate negotiations.

As you might have guessed, nobody understood what he meant.

So he explained the history of the QWERTY keyboard, which he says if you think about, doesn't really make sense because if you wanted to type really effectively you should group the most used letters, the vowels, together. The early prototype typewriter actually attempted this. But the problem was, ("and I hope you understand what I am talking about or have at least seen a typewriter in a museum" he said), typewriters have keys that go up and down when you jab a button and it hits the ink ribbon that gets pressed on your paper, and these keys jam all the time, especially if you're typing quickly. So to solve the jam, they invented the QWERTY keyboard to separate the vowel keys and to actually slow down typists! And the only reason it's still being used in todays keyboards is because a status quo path dependence on the QWERTY had already been ingrained in everyone.

This was thrilling information in and of itself, which I think will last longer than my knowledge on climate change. I can just see myself at future dinner tables, passionately arguing that the inefficient size of wedding parties in Jakarta suffers from the QWERTY keyboard syndrome. The explanation that would follow will be so obscure and complex and geeky that people will (a) be dazzled by my faux intelligence and gaze at me in rapt admiration, or, (b) change the subject.

Yeah okay, scenario (b) is more likely.

On style and success.

I'm not the most fashionable girl in the world, but I am definitely itching to provide style tips to some girls at my office. This does not make me a superficial person; I think it was Chanel who said, a woman can be unfashionable but she must have style.

I learned it the hard way. When I was in high school my friends would laugh at my bright-green socks, which I had since I was 10. When I was in university my male friends would shake their heads at my baggy rapper jeans. "We love you just the way you are, but you need to be optimized", they said. The first time I had a creambath for my hair, they noticed. And dearest Mom never lets me out of the house without quality control. Of course this depends on every individual's milieu, and since I was in law school people generally liked a bit of conservatism.

And so it applies to lawyers. Of course, brain matters most and beauty comes from within, but style is an obtainable skill so there's no reason why not. It needs to make you presentable, allow a good visual first impression, but not stand out like an attention seeker. It's really just science.

Your front buttons shouldn't look like they are about to burst.
Your hair doesn't need to be greasy.
Your blouse shouldn't be made of napkin-like fabric.
Your shoes/bag shouldn't look like they are trying too hard to be leather.
Etc.

Really. If I were Partner, I would take them out for a girly shopping session and buy them stuff. (I must mention this when I present my pitch for partnership).



PS: Inspired to post this suddenly because my classmates are generally stylish, even the geeky ones. Wondering whether Style equals Success or whether Success gives you Style. Hmm.

Being ignored gives me a headache. Like the way an overdose of wasabi shoots up my nose and hits that spot between my eyes. And then it goes away and I forget the next time around.

He is never going to reply to my emails. I just never learn.

The Plan.

Mom : Any new stories?
Me : Not much. Just studying.
Mom : How are your friends here in Jakarta?
Me : Well, I heard that H, G, P, and V are pregnant... and A, K, and B are getting married this year, C and D got engaged.
Mom : And your ex?
Me : He seems fine... Busy, happy. What news from your end?
Mom : Well, your cousin B is getting married in May, cousin P is getting married in July, and your Aunt L is expecting two grandchildren this year because both her daughter-in-laws are pregnant at the moment.
Me : Wow. Everybody's .... breeding.
Mom: None of my children even have a girlfriend or boyfriend.
Me : Haha. Yes. Sorry bout that.
Mom : I want to stand beside the bride & groom while my hair is still plentiful.
Me : Of course.
Mom: Where did I go wrong??
Me : Umm...
Mom: When you get home, we have to downplay your education. It might scare off men.
Me : Brilliant. Sounds like a plan.

Schmasian

The chinese shopkeeper of the convenience store looked at me curiously.

"Are you Vietnamese?" she asked
"No, I'm Indonesian"
"Where?"
"Indonesia"
"Oh, sorry. You look Asian."

She was surprised that somebody from Indonesia would look Asian.

I was confused and was about to say something, but then decided not to.

Swing.

Having endured lectures peppered with high level intellectualism that I am not entirely sure I grasp, and classmates who not only have opinions but know how to tailor their opinions so as to sound extremely competent, uniform levels of diligence and concentration everywhere I go, and grades that could have been better... I suffer bouts of insecurity (although I am told this happens to absolutely everyone). I swing from confidence and drive to pitiful helplessness and apathy from one day to the next.

So this is just for me really, but I'd like to put this down in writing and to the (virtual) world as an engraved reminder of my utmost basic principles that I should just stick by, period.

1. Ikhtiar. (Do Your Absolute Best)
2. Tawwakkal. (Ask God To Do The Rest)

This piece always makes me smile

"How high the ocean, how high the moon
I don't know the words of this song, but imma gonna sing 'em anyway
I hope you enjoy it, hope you enjoy it.
Ella Fitzgerald sings this song real real real crazy
...that's the way she sings it.
So imma gonna try to sing it that way for you
So here goes..."

-Sarah Vaughan-

PS: How high was Sarah?

Focus 101.

If brains could solidify mine probably has. Into an uneven lump of gray matter as dry and meaningless as corrugated cardboard. It is a crisis of the worst kind, the kind that it (the brain) is itself conscious of, and I say the worst kind because it does nothing despite being conscious of its shortcomings.

Consider this.

Every day I resolve to concentrate. To shut out all other noise and delightful distractions in place of a secluded mental isolation in which all the brilliant thoughts discreetly hiding within my condensing layers of gray matter will come out with a bang and a eureka and prove themselves worthy of my academic leanings. But no. It is like faith. I know I have it, but its manifestation digresses habitually.

Today I succeeded in concentrating. Laptop closed, facebook untouched, earphones kept away, random sneezes, whisperings, and passersby ignored, for maybe 6-8 hours. It was just me and... algebra. It is a welcome break from law courses. Algebra is therapeutic. It provides answers that are either right or wrong. Once you begin you cannot stop, cannot let go, until you find the answer, because you know the truth is out there, at your very fingertips, if you would only persevere. The Professor of this course - Environmental Economics - is also reassuring because when you ask him a question he does not bounce the question back to the entire classroom to illicit endless opinions with no conclusion but he instead tells you, concisely, what the answer is. It is like playing Bach after several years of trying to play like Thelonius Monk.

In fact, I can probably connect everything to jazz. The title shall be "Law Is Like Jazz: An Improvised Analysis". Abstract: In order to improvise, you need to know the chord progressions. In order to find the loopholes in the law, you need to know the law. There is no such thing as a right or wrong tune/ argument. You just know it is beautiful/ convincing when you hear it. Which reminds me I should get a transcript of that discussion between Justice O'Connor and Wynton Marsalis, "A Celebration of America", to cite from. This could be a profound theorem.

I'm digressing.

I'm digressing from my thesis, is the more appropriate big-picture conclusion. My thesis, unfortunately, is cool but has nothing to do with jazz, or algebra. Did you ever hear this (really lame) joke:

"Why did the blonde stare at the orange juice carton?"

"No idea. Why?"

"Because it said 'Concentrate'. Haha. Get it? Concentrate. "

So. I could use an orange juice.

Bukan saya tidak betah.

"Kesetiaan kepada negeri ini bukanlah karena patriotisme yang pongah.

Kita setia kepada Indonesia justru karena ia terus-menerus memanggil: ia belum selesai. Kita tak bisa melepaskan diri dari ikatan kita kepadanya; kita tak bisa melupakannya; kita terkadang bangga terkadang risau karenanya. Tapi tetap: Indonesia bukan hanya tempat tinggal.

Indonesia adalah sebuah amanat."

-Gunawan Mohamad, 15 Mei 2009-

A Bad Case of New Orleans

I don't know when I will recover from this holiday. I fear that every place I visit next will be under pressure to live up to my New Orleans trip. I cherish my crystallized moments all the time, but this would be a prized collection worthy of its own display shelf.

Preservation Hall Jazz Band

The name was quaint: "Preservation Hall". It had a dignified ring to it, like Carnegie Hall, but also a comical note which reminded me of preserved pickles. On Monday when we came to see the 8pm show, the line at 7.30pm extended an entire one block. So on Saturday we came at 6pm and patiently waited 2 hours out in the cold to get front seats. At 8.00 pm the iron gates opened with a clang, and we were ushered into a tiny, dilapidated room with yellowing walls, faded oil paintings of jazz musicians, and wooden ceiling fans. On one end of the room, a silent assembly of the piano, drum, bass, and three antique wooden chairs for the brass players stood waiting, lit by dim yellow light bulbs. The place was magical. It was exactly like it used to be when the first jazz musicians played here decades ago. It was perfectly preserved.

We all sat on long wooden benches or floor cushions. The band was smooth, laid-back, soulful, and amazing in every way, but the real kick was when the trumpeter sang. I've heard many singers with better voices, but this was something else. Without microphone, he stood up and sang to us like he was telling a story. He sang the blues the way Shakespeare plays used to be done in small medieval theaters. Then he sang "St James Infirmary" by Louis Armstrong, and I was spellbound.

"I went down to St. James Infirmary
I saw my baby there,
She's laid out on a cold white table,
So so cold, so white, so fair.

Let her go, God bless her,
Wherever she may be

She may search this wide world over
She'll never find a sweet trumpet player like me."

Beignets

The local New Orleanian dessert that is all the rave, which resembled soft doughnuts snowed under with powder sugar. So we had to go all touristy and try the one everybody says that everybody says is the best, at Cafe du Monde. The line was formidably long, but we were determined tourists just like everybody else. When we finally got in we stopped a waiter and asked for a table.

"Manyallidis?"
"Sorry?"
"Owmanyalliddis??"
"I'm sorry, say that again?"
"How many o' y'all it is??"
"Oh! Err... four... people?"
"Aight chu can git dat table o'er there baby and I'll be right wit cha."

Kermit

My friend couldn't believe that Kermit Ruffins was playing at Vaughan's on New Year's eve. I said, "who's Kermit Ruffins?"
Once upon a time my friend's father stumbled on a trumpet jazz rendition of "happy birthday", and loved it so much that he played it at every single birthday party in their house for 10 years. Kermit Ruffins was the guy who played that trumpet. Before we left for the venue, my friend called up the father and told him excitedly that we were about to see Kermit Ruffins live.

So we went to Vaughan's and found a large, crowded shack in the middle of a dark neighbourhood, lit with kitschy multi-color lightbulbs and cheap new year decorations. Kermit Ruffins was deliciously drunk, and his music kept the place together and alive. Everyone seemed to know each other, or at least knew the bartender, who was a small asian lady. A woman passed by and gave me a plastic cube that glowed blue when I put it in my drink.

An old man with a kind wrinkled face sat near us and smiled at us. And then he asked my friend, "What's wrong with your lady friend here? She's so cold. I smiled at her 3 times and she didn't even see me." He must have been 60 years old, and his face was weathered like a farmer who is out in the sun all day.

My friend said, "You know why? Because she's Asian. They have these small eyes and it's hard for them to see things."
"That's right," I said and nodded seriously.
The old man laughed so hard it made me happy to see him.
I gave him a hug and said, "I love you, man."
"I love you too," he said.

9th Ward

We spent an entire day to visit the 9th ward, the residential area most affected by Hurricane Katrina, to volunteer in building a house. No cement or bricks were involved, everything was made of wood and nails. We spent 8 hours measuring, chain-sawing wood planks, and nailing them to the walls and the beams.

"I'm doing this like a retard," I said apologetically to a new acquaintance.

We had seen this guy the night before, at the Cottonmouth Kings' performance, tearing up the dance floor with his amazing swing dance. When we saw him that morning at the construction site, it was a "Hey, weren't you the one who...?" moment.

He was a school teacher, a semi-professional swing dancer, and in his pastime he liked to do voluntary work. He said, "Oh don't worry about feeling like a retard. I used to bring my students to help out here and they did things really slow. I talked to the site supervisor and said, 'sorry man, we're taking things too slow here', and he said, 'Please don't worry. It's not the speed that's important. It's the experience and goodwill that you take home with you that matters'".

As we labored on the house, local residents would drive by in their cars, rap music blasting out from their speakers that were set to maximum volume. At any other time and circumstance I would be avoiding these people because of the things I see in Hollywood gangsta movies. But as they drove by the honked their horns, waved at us and shouted, "Happy New Year y'all!"

Poetry

On our way to see the New Orleans Cottonmouth Kings, I found a man sitting in the middle of the cold street with a typewriter. The sign taped on the typewriter said, "Fresh Poems While You Wait". I stopped and asked if I could take his picture.

"Sure. Thanks for asking by the way. The other tourists just don't bother to ask and I have to bark at them because it's just impolite."
"Oh but do you mind?"
"Yeah no. I mean it'd be better if people just gave me the money, but you can take my picture."
"Oh I'd like your poetry. How does this work?"
"Right. So you give me a theme, and I'll make you a poem, and then you pay."
"Okay. Then make me a poem on.... 'impoliteness'"
"Oh that's a great one."

And the man made me this poem in two minutes flat:

"Polite-ness"

oversensitive america
we complain and whine

i am pissed off or sad.
and yet, what of
please and thank you..

used to death,
tools of five year olds.

i once taught a women

hello and please
and she became much
more popular on the farm

so polite and nice
but i prefer
new england brashness..

and a nice tone of voice
to retain
a spectacle of civility

M Hayden
Dec 28 2009
Frenchmen St.